


The Private Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

by Dee_Laundry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/Heterosexual John Watson, Asexuality Spectrum, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Canon-Typical Violence, Diary/Journal, Gender Related, Gray-Asexuality, Grey-A Sherlock, Heterosexual John Watson, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Non-binary character, Other, Polyamory, Post-Reichenbach, Queerplatonic Relationships, Transitioning, qpr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: #sherlocklives means #johnwatsonlives
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This begins with violence: John going after Sherlock similarly to how he did in canon in the first restaurant in The Empty Hearse. That is the _only_ violence between John and Sherlock that occurs in the many years of their relationship that the entire fic will cover. Rest assured that Sherlock does not suffer psychologically from John’s brief attack; he is not surprised John needs some rough physical contact, and could stop John at any time. Sherlock also does not suffer physically; he has not been recently whipped in this version of events. In short, the event is no different to the two of them than an overly enthusiastic hug would be.

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Sherlock is back.

Not dead.

No matter how roughly John had shoved him down and grabbed his shoulders. No matter how many times John had slammed that slender -- too slender -- torso against the floor, growling with anger and hurt and relief. He’d been careful of Sherlock’s head, though, aware of the need to protect that great sodding brain that Sherlock needed so sorely to compensate for his _utter_ **lack** of _**sense**_.

Sherlock hadn’t apologized.

John hadn’t expected it of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence: John was already married to Mary when Sherlock came back.

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John is getting divorced.

It’s not Sherlock’s fault. No.

With the cases back in his life (the danger, the chase, the exhilaration), John’s found that he’s as shoddy a husband to Mary as he was a boyfriend to the women before her. He loves her, but she doesn’t fit. And she shouldn’t have to fit; she should have the man she married. Or, rather, she should have a man for whom being like the man she married makes him whole.

John wants to tell her that, explain, but she’s never liked poetry and prose won’t suit.

John wrote Sherlock a poem once. It went like this:

There once was a man from London  
Who SHOULD GET THE HELL OFF MY LAPTOP THIS MEANS YOU SHERLOCK

The missing punctuation was very ee cummings, John thought at the time and still thinks today.

John’s room at 221B is exactly as it was, not even a layer of dust. The refrigerator holds a serving platter of toenails, a jar of ginger preserve, and three carrots. The microscope on the kitchen table looks to be even larger than the one that sat there before.

Sherlock nods when John sets a cuppa next to him.

(Don’t have to justify this being in third person point of view. This is my private journal, written for me and me only. If Sherlock Holmes wants to UTTERLY DISAPPOINT ME by reading these entries, it’s his lookout.)


	3. Chapter 3

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They have had A Conversation.

Capital A, Capital C.

It was awkward and awful and stretched across three days and might as well have been in an outer-space alien language for all it resembled how two British men typically talk with each other. (Yes, they are neither of them typical, but they _are_ both British men.) But at least it produced a conclusion.

(Capital A, Capital C, but John isn’t Milne enough to do that twice in a row.)

The conclusion was this: What they have is what they want. Each is the other’s Most Important Person. (Perhaps John is more Milne than he thought.) So as not to incite competition for the Most Important Person position, John will stop dating and Sherlock won’t start. 

Sherlock had assayed that John was welcome to any one-night stands he could pull; John had assayed that Sherlock could shut his fat mouth, that John would take care of it.

Nothing was said on the subject of Sherlock having sex, John having decided he didn’t want to know, and Sherlock… well, John doesn’t know what Sherlock was thinking on that topic, because, as mentioned, it wasn’t mentioned.

They finished the conversation with Jaffa Cakes and an argument over whose turn it was to clean the bathroom.

It’s two days later, and the bathroom still isn’t clean.


	4. Chapter 4

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Sherlock Holmes drools in his sleep.

_I **know**._

He seems above all that. Rarefied. But nope, just like you and me (well, not _me_ , I’m perfect whilst sleeping ha ha).

This is how the discovery came about:

It was a rollicking case, far outside London, and involved startlingly brilliant brainwork from you-know-who and a few medical insights from yours truly and multiple chases and a dead satisfying tackle of the culprit, who did not anticipate John coming in high and Sherlock low. 

By the time the statements had been taken, the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted, the last train home had long since departed, and John and Sherlock took the very last room at the local inn. That the room had only one bed was immaterial, as Sherlock insisted he’d be up the entire night filing the details of the crime away in his cranium and John was knackered enough to sleep through the end of the world. Barely got his boots off and bam, head to pillow, sawing logs as the Americans say.

The wake-up the next morning was much slower than the go-to-sleep, as John felt truly rested for the first time in a longer time than he wants to think about. Uni? No, now that he considers, definitely _not_ uni, nor secondary, nor Afghanistan, nor the army bits that weren’t in Afghanistan, and absolutely not when he first came back from Afghanistan.

Anyway. Suffice it to say, the rested feeling was novel and John enjoyed wallowing in it, eyes closed, on his back, blissful, with tiny little stretches of this muscle or that from time to time, just because it felt good to wiggle a bit. It was during one of these stretches that John made two realizations at exactly the same time: there now was a rod of some kind pressed against the side of his thigh, and there had always been a much larger rod lying across his chest. Well, probably not a rod, the second one, as it seemed to break apart at the end, given the pressure points. A limb, with branches? No, and John’s brain didn’t seem to function well when rested, which was something he’d have to think about when he finished thinking about the _arm_ across his chest. Plus the knees he could now feel his legs bumping gently against and the probably-an-erect-dick pressed to his thigh.

He thought, and considered, and speculated. Unless Sherlock had let someone else into the room and then buggered off to who-knows-where (I mean, it’s Sherlock; that’s not out of the realm of possibility), then it was most likely Sherlock’s arm and knees and probably-an-erect-dick and general wafting warmth surrounding John. Which was… not bad.

That was a bit of a surprise to John, not minding a bloke being cuddled up to him as he slept. It was impossible to know if it was not minding “a bloke” or not minding Sherlock, and really that question was pretty much moot, given the small likelihood of any other man crawling into bed with John. 

Small likelihood not being no likelihood, John decided at that point to check that it was indeed Sherlock curled next to him. Visual reconnaissance. Which meant opening one’s eyes.

Hmph.

Some minutes (seconds? eons?) later, John summoned the fortitude to open his eyes and thus abandon the prospect of any more sleep. Which he didn’t need -- truly rested, remember? -- but still was reluctant to forego. Onward.

John opened his eyes and turned his head, and there was Sherlock. Looking so much younger in sleep (YES THAT’S A CLICHE but he _did_. He did.), hair tousled, and face relaxed.

Well relaxed.

Utterly relaxed.

 _So_ relaxed that his lips were sagging down towards the pillow his head rested on, and a rivulet of saliva linked the corner of his mouth to that pillow.

John went from content to gleeful in a blink of the eye (which had been done to ensure he was actually seeing Sherlock Holmes _drool_ ), and something about that transformation woke Sherlock.

There followed a lot of grumbling and only a tiny, tiny bit of sniggering and eventually an agreement on both sides to never discuss again that SHERLOCK HOLMES DROOLS IN HIS SLEEP, and also that kipping in the same bed was not all that bad and might even be better on Sherlock’s sybaritically comfortable mattress and bedclothes.

I’m keeping my own room, though.


	5. Chapter 5

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Brits eat, on average, more than 25 pounds of bananas per year.

Given the quantity of fruit in the kitchen of 221B, Sherlock is apparently planning to eat his share all in one week.

Even more surprising than the bounty of banana bunches is that Sherlock actually did the shopping. That calls for a celebratory cuppa.

...

Nevermind, there’s no milk, because he didn’t do the shopping, he just bought bananas.

“And boric acid,” His Nibs is insisting, as if that’s SOMETHING I COULD PUT IN MY TEA.

A certain someone may find himself with far fewer blankets than he is accustomed to when he traipses in to bed tonight.


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